Fairy Tales Shattered
by Battlefield Angel
Summary: This is the first Phantom piece I've put up, so deal kindly with it. I've posted the last chapter, Timor Mortis Conturbat Me. Enjoy!
1. Shattered Hopes

I've been wanting to write something for Phantom for a while now. But nothing had quite turned out as I wanted it. Until this. Considering that I'm going to have Phantom on the brain for quite some time ( and by the way, Gerard Butler may be absolutely delectable, but it's the mask that's the turn on), I got this little bit on paper. This is an interpretation of the Phantom's reaction to Christine's betrayal on the roof. I know, one of the most overdone scenes, but I figure it's a good place to jump off and see if I won't fall. Based on the musical (though I don't drop the chandelier… yet)

K.S.

This pain had passed beyond any he had felt before. Before, there had been physical pain, mental pain. This was the clear, blinding torture of a soul. Every word she had spoken, every tear that had fallen from her cheek to be kissed away by that boy, had steadily drained all his hope.

And when they had left the roof, happy despite their fear and uncertainty, confident in love, he was alone. Nothing remained to witness his grief. Ever the stars were veiled, and the moon hid her face. He laughed bitterly. There would be no comfort offered him. Why should there be? The evidence was compelling: he was a monster.

There had been times when he had almost been convinced otherwise. Times when he had fiercely believed that he could live like other men. Loving her had taught him to hope.

And now, it was gone. She had destroyed it with a few frantic words. And surprisingly, it wasn't her reaction to his face; it was her obvious fear that he would harm her that hurt him so. But oh, his eyes _had _closed in pain and horror when she described his face to that boy. That damnably perfect boy! That boy who loved her! And she loved _him_. God, no! He could have dealt with a scoundrel. But that boy's earnest adoration of her defeated him. How could he hope to win her away from that? He twisted his hands in some awful combination of anger and hurt that was made all the more terrible by the tears that threatened to choke him. It wasn't fair! That he should find this... And that it should be taken away. The mask. That damned mask. If not for that, and what lay behind it, he should have his fairy tale.

Why? Why? Why? Why?

So many questions ran through his head. Why couldn't she see how much he loved her? Why couldn't she return it? Why couldn't he have a normal face? Why wasn't his voice enough? Why wasn't his love enough?

That night, that one beautiful night, he had really believed, no matter what the morning had brought. He had believed that she could love him. She had almost kissed him, and no matter how much he wanted that, he had shied away. In some strange way, he was almost as afraid of her as she was of him. She hadn't been afraid then. He had been shaking as she came close. He was terrified of her. Of her closeness. Of her finding out. Now, he would never get his kiss. He had wanted to be sure, wanted her to trust him totally, to overcome her fear. And it would never happen.

The anger that he had kept in check bubbled over. So, she had made her choice. And they would all burn in hell before her Angel would let her forget it. If she thought him a monster, so be it. He would be the nightmare she expected of him. Live up to all their expectations. He laughed again. What else could he do? He would never be the hero in this fairy tale. The only role open to him was the villain, the monster, the dragon.

The anger soon dissolved, however. It left in it's wake a man hollowed by anguish. The cold finally seeped into his consciousness. A snowflake caught his eyelashes and mingled with the tears.

Slowly, slowly, he made his down. Down to his home, underground, to lick his wounds and plan. Regroup. He would finish Don Juan. And she would sing it. She owed him that much. He would pour out all his anger, his pain, into it. And his love for her. Most of all his love. The finale was playing of it's own volition in his head. He could hear his own voice raised in song with hers. How else could he tell her? That he wanted her, needed her. That he loved her more than anything he had known in his bleak life. He couldn't tell her. Only in song did he lose his fear. He was still afraid of her. Of the disgust in her eyes. Yet, he was sure there was still some fascination on her part. She had gotten such a look on her face… Yes, there was something there. If anything else, she loved his voice, his music. And hope sparked up again, tentative, unsure, but there. She loved his voice still, and that would keep him going in the time it took to finish his opera. And open the curtain on an even larger one.


	2. Shattered Illusions

Fairy Tales Shattered, Part 2

I thought about calling this second part, which is Christine's disillusionment, "Timor Mortis Conturbat Me", which is a quote from Dunbar. But, I think that, will be saved for when I write something about the finale. The Latin translates to "The fear of death disturbs me," very appropriate for Christine. But I will leave that quote for later. So here is the unmasking scene, in Christine's point of view.

I woke to the sound of the music box. Such an odd little tune it played! Cheerful and mournful all at once. Yet it, and the feel of the bedclothes brought me out of my daze into cold reality. My Angel!

He wasn't an Angel, though. He was a man. That he should deceive me so was unpardonable. Yet how he had sang to me, that strange smile of his lighting what part of his face I could see. Such an oddly sweet smile… Almost as if he didn't know how to smile, and was only just learning. The touch of his hand upon mine was so light as to be unsure.

How different my Angel had become. No longer the imposing tutor, he seemed so young and uncertain. A suitor too shy to declare himself. I did not understand the sadness that touched him. That he was a genius, I knew. And to cope with such strains on the mind and soul, genius is often eccentric. So then, I could understand his living under the opera. But the mask! It had caught and held my fascination almost as surely as his voice had won my heart.

Strange, that I can admit I loved him, then. But the mask tantalized. It begged me to come and know it's secret. And so I did, to my eternal regret.

I don't know what hurt me more: his momentous anger, or his abject misery. I think perhaps, it was the latter. How he had pitifully clutched his face, shielding his deformity from my view. How his sweet voice was roughened by horror surpassing my own. I realized then that he had sought to protect me from it, and to protect himself.

Oh, I knew he loved me. And I knew that he knew he had no hope of approaching me without the guise of the Angel, and that the mask shielded us both.

That was why I handed the mask back to him. I could not bear to see him shaking so. Pitiful and forlorn and needing the mask. In some strange way, he must have felt it was his safeguard, a security. It was his red scarf.

As soon as it was secure on his face, I dared to look up. And there he was, no longer a cringing, weeping creature, but once again a dark angel, invested once more with all the charm and mystery he had ever possessed. And he spoke, low and heady, words which did not register into my dazed brain. If he had tried to kiss me then, he would have met no resistance.

And then, I realized that, as much as his voice, the mask itself was part of his allure, and his curse. And God help me, I loved him for it. I still do…

There it is. I won't beg, but if you read it, please review. It warms the cockles of my heart and helps me procrastinate by writing stories rather than studying for finals.

K.S.


	3. Confidence Shattered

Confidences Shattered

Watching them together made the young man clench his hands. His short, well-manicured nails bit into his palms. There was something about it that ripped into him, like a consuming fire in his belly. Jealousy. He was jealous of this man who wore a mask! And who, by all accounts, was a fiend from hell. the monster who continually circled about his precious Christine like some cat circling it's prey.

Raoul did not know what had happened to Piangi, nor did he care inasmuch as it related to how the Phantom had gotten onstage. How?!!! There had been police stationed everywhere! There had been no conceivable way for the madman to sneak past the Suerte. How the _hell _had he done it?

But, even more upsetting, was the creature's effect on Christine. He had caught only a glimpse of her, mesmerized, at her father's grave. She had been drawn out of it easily. And the swordfight- it had taken all his strength and skill to force the Phantom down. He should have finished it then and there, like putting down a rabid dog. But Christine had stopped him, God alone knew why. He shouldn't have listened. She couldn't still be fascinated by the creature.

Now, with the all the guns of the Paris police force trained on him, the Phantom sang. And he fascinated them all. Christine sang with them and everyone, in the auditorium, and backstage stopped and listened to the Angel of Darkness and the Angel of Light. Raoul did not know whether she remained in the role of bait, but he feared that she had abandoned everything for this mad duet with a monster.

A thought dawned. _He _could stop this. With just a signal to to sharpshooter, he could end this travesty. But it died soon. He realized that Christine too would be in the line of fire. The Phantom must know that the police were there. He would be counting that they would not risk Christine. But he could not know that. And Raoul did not trust the marksman that much. He leaned down, watching them. And he noticed, how, strangely enough, the Phantom held her angled away from the pit, as if the madman had read his thoughts.

"He doesn't expect to get out of this alive," the young nobleman thought in amazement. "He knows what we've planned and that she is the bait. Yet still he came. Why?"

The song had finished and the Phantom moved to face Christine. The seduction of _Don Juan _was over, there was no doubt in anyone's mind that this was no opera tenor singing the part of the great lover. When he opened his mouth to sing again, it was as if silver tears dropped from his mouth... his soul laid bare for all to see.

_"Lead me, save me from my solitude"_

Women were openly weeping. Even Raoul, sitting on the edge of his seat, felt a twinge of pity for his rival.

Christine was weeping as well. She put her hand to his face, so gently. And tore the mask and wig from the his head. A rending cry of horror escaped his lips as he turned from her, blindly facing the audience. Raoul caught a glimpse and realized that Christine and Madame Giry had not exaggerated. He could indeed have been the 'devil's child'. The man with the twisted countenance heard the first screams and pulled his tormenter close to him, falling through a trap door that had not been part of the scene design. They disappeared from view and a sound, ominous in it's delicacy, drew attention. The chandelier, roughly two tons in weight, tinkled, fairylike as it whirled and danced. And it fell, like a constellation of falling stars, upon the screaming, hysterical folk in the floor seats.

Raoul stood, he had seen enough. He had to rescue her, no matter the cost to himself. He blamed himself for this disaster, but he would not abandon his love to that monster. He could never forgive himself for not believing her, and for underestimating his rival. He had to find them. Madame Giry would know...

OK, so it's fairly obvious that I don't have as good a grasp on Raoul as I do on certain other characters. Must come from being the high school outcast, and five years haven't purged those experiences. I guess I just have trouble getting into the popular kid's head.

But this is the last before the finale, which I'm currently working on. Yay for month-long winter breaks! It will be entitled "Timor Mortis Conturbat Me" and probably will include dialogue, and changes of point of view. And, of course, the Kiss. Au revoir, the 22nd approaches, and I fully expect to be in a Phantomy haze through New Years... Fondest regards,

K.S.


	4. Timor Mortis Conturbat Me

Timor Mortis Conturbat Me

"The Fear of Death Disturbs Me"

A/N: Yeah, so, I've seen it twice and am now officially ocd over Phantom (not that I wasn't before, I mean come on, when a girl gets the mask tattooed to her back, that kinda indicates obsession.). But I digress. I could not seem to get Raoul into my head for this part, and so, I am consigning the little twit (goddess help me but he's difficult to write!) to perdition. I don't hate him or anything, but I can't make him into something besides a gung-ho, Prince Charming wannabe, and I don't want to do that. So, on to greener pastures, and more interesting anti-heroes. I am playing with changing POV's in this one, so bear with me. Please read and review! It bolsters my confidence and keeps me going till I can get to go see the movie again (I have to drive 40 some miles to get to either of the cities near me playing Phantom) and/or feed my crush (1st movie star crush at 23! be proud I went this long! And who better to crush on than the Phantom, I ask you?) I've used a few quotes from the musical/movie, to add a bit of atmosphere, and to help when I couldn't find my own words for it.Enjoy.

Warmest regards, K.S.

It was time. The stage was set, quite literally. And the players, on and off stage, assembled.

She had transformed, he thought from his vantage point, from an angel to a siren. And she lured him, so unwittingly, into further madness. It had been so amazingly simple. Of course he knew they would kill him. But to be near her one last time, to make that final plea! He should have known. Reaching out to her was like trying to catch a candle's flame. It would inevitably scorch him every time. Piangi was dispatched with ease; and he felt no pity for the fat tenor who had treated his precious gem so poorly. _She _burned him, branding him as hers, no matter that she did not want him. He belonged to her, that was so painfully clear. The last song, it was a seduction, oh yes, but she seduced him just as much, if not more so than the reverse. And so he sang on, till there was no _Don Juan_, just him.

He vaguely registered that there were women weeping quite openly as he began what he saw as his last hope for salvation. Christine herself had tears glimmering in her limpid (what a fun word to say, limpid!) eyes. He took her small hands in his, shaking as he finally told her, for all the world to hear, that he loved her. And she put her hand to his face! Her touch was so very gentle and soft. Once more, she cloaked her cruelty with that look of wide-eyed innocence. She ripped the mask from his face, along with the wig.

God, not again. This time, with all of Paris watching! He turned, blindly seeking some escape from the hardness in her eyes. The stunned silence was followed a moment later by the first of the screams. By the shouted cries of "Monster!", he knew he had to get away. There was the contingency escape. He would take it. Along with his fair gaoler. The floor fell beneath him as he gripped her tight, holding her as close to him as he ever had.

An added diversion was needed. It was a very good thing that he really did not care for that garish chandelier. Too opulent by far. The management could surely afford a new one. A few ropes cut and down it went. But he didn't look. He had gone to far to look back.

"Let go of me! Please, please let go!" She was crying now, great fat diamond tears dripping down her pretty face. Oh how he wanted to revel in those tears!

"I suppose you would have stood there and let them shoot me. Move, damn it! We have unfinished business, you and I."

"You're going to kill me, aren't you?" He kept pulling her downwards, towards the inevitable tomb of his making. They had reached the boat. He shoved her in, too angry to be gentle with her.

"Why? Before all of Paris, Christine! Wasn't once enough for you? The horror of the first time I saw my reflection was ample..." He broke off. If he said more, the hurt would overwhelm the anger. He clung to the anger, letting her know how much it hurt was far more dangerous. "Do you hate me that much?" he asked quietly.

She did not answer, her face turned from him. He poled them angrily through the flooded maze of passages. She wept silently, trying not to think on what he had asked. _Did _she hate him? He had killed Piangi for no other reason than the tenor had been in his way. He would kill Raoul without a qualm of conscience. Christine could not bear it if something happened to Raoul because of her foolishness. This man who, with every movement, shook with fury, had no intention of letting her go. Not now, not ever.

"Would that be such a terrible thing?" some sly little imp whispered from a far corner of her mind. "After all, he's tall and well-made, shame about the face. But if he keeps the mask on..." Christine quashed the imp immediately. But the words had gotten to her. None of this would ever had happened if she hadn't ripped away the mask. If she hadn't fled from him in terror just because of what he had looked like. He had pleaded with her, implored her to not judge him because of his face. And hadn't she done just that? God help her, he loved her! And she hadn't known what to do with that love, except to run from it. It burned too hot, frightening her straight into the arms of the young, handsome Vicomte de Chagny. She couldn't run now, not anymore. Here was her Angel, her teacher, the Phantom, and he would not be denied any longer.

He docked the boat and pulled her out roughly. He lifted the curtain to the bedroom, and laid out in all it's splendor, was the wedding dress that had adorned the dummy on her first trip down.

"I believe that you will find it is your size, Mademoiselle." He said coldly. She stood there, mute, eyes just as angry as his own.

"Put it on, if you please. Or would you rather I assisted you in that? I thought not." He let her enter, and dropped the curtain down again, shielding her from his view. She almost laughed at his rather ridiculous notions of modesty.

"It's not as if he doesn't plan to rid me of the dress later," She thought bitterly. There had been a time she would have gone to him without any fear, but that was long over. He was too violent, too ugly, too everything. There was nothing to him save extremes. And so she put it on.

He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw her emerge from the bedroom, wearing the wedding gown. Oh God, she was beautiful! How he loved her! And she hated him. But this had gone too far for him to give her up. He reached out to touch her; she recoiled.

"You must not do this. Please. How many more must lose their lives?"

"Just one."

"No! I'll do anything! Just don't harm him!"

"Would that you could show such concern for me." He touched her hair, rubbing his thumb over the silken lock. "You really would do anything for him, wouldn't you?" The blank misery in his voice surprised her. "What woman would do the same for me?" He took the wedding veil, touched it to his face, briefly, and placed it on her head. "Not my mother, certainly. She pawned me off to a freak show ere I could walk. No kindness, no love. Ever." He breathed deeply, he had to be calm. "I loved you more than anything I'd ever known. I was so frightened. But you loved your Angel. And I... Well, well, well. It appears we have company, my dearest. Welcome, Monsieur, to the lair of the Opera Ghost. Or do you prefer the term Phantom? Either works, but Phantom is so much more... romantic, isn't it, Christine."

"Let her go. Do whatever you like to me, just let her go!"  
"What a perfectly heroic sentiment! See, Christine, how passionately _maudlin _young lovers are?" There was some devil in him that found this darkly humorous; wickedly funny, really.

"I love her. Show some compassion!" The boy demanded. The Phantom looked at him, eyes burning. There was no sardonic gleam in those green eyes now.

"What compassion have I known? What compassion do you think the world shows to those it sees as monsters? Do not speak to me of compassion. It has scorned me. I scorn it. Come in, come in, Monsieur. Let it not be said that I lack hospitality. I daresay you would like to see her. Come Christine, show your young man your bridal finery." He grasped her, pulling her to stand beside him, like wax figurines on a wedding cake.

"Let go of me!" He let her push him away. An idea, a terrible idea occurred to him. He turned to pull the lever, letting the portcullis up. He took care to set the timer on it. He would get his happy ending, if it killed him. The young man, disarmed, was no match for him. He was soon tightly secured to the portcullis. The Phantom smiled. The Punjab Lasso would soon do it's work one last time. And Christine would be the one to decide it all.

"Christine. It's all in your hands, my dear. You can leave, walk away right now. And he dies. Or you can stay, with me, and I will spare him. But you _must _choose. His life... or mine."  
"How could you?" She whispered, sinking to the floor.

"_You try my patience, make your choice_."

There, the words were spoken, the threat made. Now all he had to do was wait. She stood there before him, in the wedding gown he had chosen as perfect. She looked an angel in it. But she was weeping. Then she was walking towards him, her eyes shining with tears still, but her face resolved. He knew. She would save the boy and stay with him. And yet there was no comfort in it. She called him a creature of darkness, and she pitied him.

He wanted no pity. Not from her. He wanted the one thing he'd been denied, all his life, ever since his mother, his beautiful, cruel mother had tossed him to the freak show. He bowed his head against the memory. He did not realize that she was standing before him, her beautiful gown spreading out over the water like a mermaid's tail. She took his face in her hands. She was still crying, but there was steel in her sweet voice as she said.

"This is my choice." She kissed him, full on the lips. And he tasted tears. His or hers, he knew not, for they both were weeping. And so it was that all the hurt and anger dissolved, leaving only wonder. When it ended, he was gasping for breath. She had thrown her arms around him, and nestled her head upon his shoulder, as a lover might. _A lover_. His breathing hitched, he put his arms about her, holding her close. He put his good cheek to her hair, breathing in her scent.

She lifted her head from his shoulder. He was trembling. Her poor Angel. He had never been kissed before! That he should shake so, seem so pained that she had kissed him. Christine looked into those brimming eyes, and, her own overflowing, felt a surge of warmth in her heart for him. It was as if all of the fear, the uncertainty, had left her. She knew now that she loved him, and this time, when she kissed him, there was no thought of Raoul in her head. There was only this man, no longer Angel or Phantom, just a man, whom she had driven to madness. She kissed him, and there was no doubt in her mind, only the passion which she had been afraid of for so long.

He broke the kiss. He touched her face, hesitantly. He was weeping, uncontrollable sobs which wracked his body.

"Go. They're coming. They mustn't find you here. The boat. You'll need to take it, to get her to safety. GO! I'm a fool for trying to keep an angel in hell, with me. Please, just go, leave. Don't cry, Christine, you'll marry your Vicomte, and you'll be happy." He nearly choked at the end. He stumbled into the bedroom, fell to his knees before the music box. He sang that silly little song, "...hide your face so the world will never find you..." He smiled a little at the thought. He spent his whole life hiding. His whole life alone.

They were there. He knew it. He rose, ready to face the wrath of stagehands and the police. Hopefully, they would kill him quickly, with as little pain as possible. He turned to face them, and found Christine.

"You... you came back?"  
"I had to. I..." She stood, tears swallowing her words. He put a finger to her mouth.

"Shh. Christine, I love you. I love you. And you can't love me. You want nothing to do with me. You don't even know my name."

"I want to. Tell me."

"My name is Erik. Now go, before I can't bear to let you leave again."

"I won't. Please. Do something, say something. Make me stay. I don't _want _to leave. Make me stay." She rushed to him, clasping her arms about his body, sobbing onto his shoulder.

"Christine," He leaned his head upon hers, memorizing her scent, her warmth, how right she felt in his arms. "If I loved you less, I'd let you. But you have to go with him. I love you too much to keep you. Now go. Go." He pushed her away, gently. She stood looking at him with tears in her eyes. He shook his head, sadly, but firmly. She nodded, and turned. This time, he watched her leave; watched her walk out of his life forever.

She paused, briefly, at the curtained entrance, "I love you."

And then she was gone.

I decided to title this part in reference to a poem by William Dunbar, a Scottish poet in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. The Latin phrase, _Timor mortis conturbat me_, meaning "the fear of death disturbs me" was taken from his poem, "The Lament for the Makers". And no, I did not choose the piece because the Phantom of the movie is a Scot (or the fact that I count several ancestors of that nationality), but because that phrase seemed so fitting to Christine's dilemma.


End file.
